One of Ours, Willa Cather [feel good fiction books txt] 📗

worth the watchfulness and devotion of so many men and machines, this extravagant consumption of fuel and energy? Taken one by one, they were ordinary fellows like himself. Yet here they were. And in this massing and movement of men there was nothing mean or common; he was sure of that. It was, from first to last, unforeseen, almost incredible. Four years ago, when the French were holding the Marne, the wisest men in the world had not conceived of this as possible; they had reckoned with every fortuity but this. “Out of these stones can my Father raise up seed unto Abraham.”

Downstairs the men began singing “Annie Laurie.” Where were those summer evenings when he used to sit dumb by the windmill, wondering what to do with his life?

IV

The morning of the third day; Claude and the Virginian and the Marine were up very early, standing in the bow, watching the Anchises mount the fresh blowing hills of water, her prow, as it rose and fell, always a dull triangle against the glitter. Their escorts looked like dream ships, soft and iridescent as shell in the pearl-coloured tints of the morning. Only the dark smudges of smoke told that they were mechanical realities with stokers and engines.

While the three stood there, a sergeant brought Claude word that two of his men would have to report at sick-call. Corporal Tannhauser had had such an attack of nosebleed during the night that the sergeant thought he might die before they got it stopped. Tannhauser was up now, and in the breakfast line, but the sergeant was sure he ought not to be. This Fritz Tannhauser was the tallest man in the company, a German-American boy who, when asked his name, usually said that his name was Dennis and that he was of Irish descent. Even this morning he tried to joke, and pointing to his big red face told Claude he thought he had measles. “Only they ain’t German measles, Lieutenant,” he insisted.

Medical inspection took a long while that morning. There seemed to be an outbreak of sickness on board. When Claude brought his two men up to the Doctor, he told them to go below and get into bed. As they left he turned to Claude.

“Give them hot tea, and pile army blankets on them. Make them sweat if you can.” Claude remarked that the hold wasn’t a very cheerful place for sick men.

“I know that, Lieutenant, but there are a number of sick men this morning, and the only other physician on board is the sickest of the lot. There’s the ship’s doctor, of course, but he’s only responsible for the crew, and so far he doesn’t seem interested. I’ve got to overhaul the hospital and the medical stores this morning.”

“Is there an epidemic of some sort?”

“Well, I hope not. But I’ll have plenty to do today, so I count on you to look after those two.” The doctor was a New Englander who had joined them at Hoboken. He was a brisk, trim man, with piercing eyes, clean-cut features, and grey hair just the colour of his pale face. Claude felt at once that he knew his business, and he went below to carry out instructions as well as he could.

When he came up from the hold, he saw the aviator⁠—whose name, he had learned, was Victor Morse⁠—smoking by the rail. This cabin-mate still piqued his curiosity.

“First time you’ve been up, isn’t it?”

The aviator was looking at the distant smoke plumes over the quivering, bright water. “Time enough. I wish I knew where we are heading for. It will be awfully awkward for me if we make a French port.”

“I thought you said you were to report in France.”

“I am. But I want to report in London first.” He continued to gaze off at the painted ships. Claude noticed that in standing he held his chin very high. His eyes, now that he was quite sober, were brilliantly young and daring; they seemed scornful of things about him. He held himself conspicuously apart, as if he were not among his own kind.

Claude had seen a captured crane, tied by its leg to a hencoop, behave exactly like that among Mahailey’s chickens; hold its wings to its sides, and move its head about quickly and glare.

“I suppose you have friends in London?” he asked.

“Rather!” the aviator replied with feeling.

“Do you like it better than Paris?”

“I shouldn’t imagine anything was much better than London. I’ve not been in Paris; always went home when I was on leave. They work us pretty hard. In the infantry and artillery our men get only a fortnight off in twelve months. I understand the Americans have leased the Riviera⁠—recuperate at Nice and Monte Carlo. The only Cook’s tour we had was Gallipoli,” he added grimly.

Victor had gone a good way toward acquiring an English accent, the boys thought. At least he said “necess’ry” and “dysent’ry” and called his suspenders “braces.” He offered Claude a cigarette, remarking that his cigars were in his lost trunk.

“Take one of mine. My brother sent me two boxes just before we sailed. I’ll put a box in your bunk next time I go down. They’re good ones.”

The young man turned and looked him over with surprise. “I say, that’s very decent of you! Yes, thank you, I will.”

Claude had tried yesterday, when he lent Victor some shirts, to make him talk about his aerial adventures, but upon that subject he was as close as a clam. He admitted that the long red scar on his upper arm had been drilled by a sharpshooter from a German Fokker, but added hurriedly that it was of no consequence, as he had made a good landing. Now, on the strength of the cigars, Claude thought he would probe a little further. He asked whether there was anything in the lost trunk that couldn’t be replaced, anything “valuable.”

“There’s one thing that’s positively invaluable; a Zeiss lens, in